


Born of Ash

by keycat



Series: Made of Steel [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Body Horror, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9710825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycat/pseuds/keycat
Summary: Maxson finds that the hardest decision he's ever had to make in his life may have been the wrong one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up, if the tags didn't make it obvious, this one's a little heavier than Bonfire (which, if you haven't read, you gotta).
> 
> There will be a third part to this, though! Stick with it and it'll get a lot better, I promise.

_ “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” _

Maxson wasn’t sure how many nights he’d gone without waking in a cold sweat. He was sure he was nearing a new record, maybe three? Until tonight, when again he woke with a jolt, grasping at the gaping nothing pressed against him, his hands slick with Danse’s blood--no, sweat, it was his own sweat, Danse was gone, and having to relive the memory of  _ why  _ was enough to make Maxson curl tightly against himself and let the inevitable sobs wrack his body. He clenched the holotags around his neck tightly in his fist, screwing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth against the new wave of agony that silently ripped through him. He let his fingers slacken, and he gently turned the faintly glowing tags to his face. He ran his thumb over Danse’s name, feeling another onslaught of tears, and he allowed them to quietly spill over his face. His entire body shuddered as he closed his fingers back around the tags and had to suppress the desire to make even the smallest sound. If any of his men caught him crying, over a synth that had been dead for five months, no less…

He had no desire to get up, now or ever, really, but knew that he had to get his mind off Danse. He knew the routine by now. It didn’t work, not really, but-- _ fuck it, _ he thought, clad in nothing but his boxers and downing a generous shot of that hideous Diamond City moonshine. Danse had gotten after him about his drinking once before,  _ but Danse isn’t here, _ Maxson thought bitterly, taking another shot straight from the bottle. He knew exactly how much he had to drink to keep his mind in a low buzz, a miserable state of being that left him just aware enough to function. It didn’t remove Danse from his mind--nothing ever would--but at least he could get to a point where he could convince himself he didn’t care.

It was exhausting, existing in such a state of mental equilibrium--remain sober enough to remain in command of the Brotherhood, remain drunk enough to forget Danse--and he knew it was the reason he couldn’t sleep. He knew it was the reason for the nightmares, the ones where he held Danse in his arms, watching the life drain from his dark eyes, but instead of a quiet resignation, they now held fear. Desperation. “ _ Why did you do this?”  _ he seemed to ask, and Maxson had no answer but to wipe more blood away from Danse’s mouth, suddenly acutely aware of just how red his hands had gone--

He covered his face with both hands. He couldn’t dwell on it. The first night, he had dwelled on it, and it nearly killed him. He had woken up with tears already running down his face, he fell out of his bunk scrambling for the collection of alcohol he kept scattered about, desperate to wash the image of Danse’s pleading face from his mind. Nothing seemed to work; the more he drank, the less he could control the grief that wracked his body, the repeated mantra that had kept his guilt at bay for so long-- _ I did what was right, I did what was right-- _ had begun to seem meaningless.  _ It’s what Danse wanted, he knew what was right,  _ he’d thought, but what the fuck did Danse know? He certainly wasn’t elder,  _ Maxson  _ was, it had been his call, and he’d murdered Danse; he  _ trusted  _ Maxson, loved him more than his own life and Maxson had repaid that trust by casting it entirely aside and murdering him for the inconsequential fact that he was a synth.

Maxson shook his head and drained the last of the moonshine, tossing the bottle indifferently in the corner. At the time, he’d felt he had only one option when he discovered that the alcohol did nothing but worsen the situation. He couldn’t imagine living with his guilt, but it was what he deserved, he knew that. But what he  _ knew  _ he couldn’t live without was Danse, and under the influence, he convinced himself that nobody would fault him for that.

The only thing that saved him was that his rarely-used 10mm, kept in the desk drawer, was unloaded; the ammunition was kept in small boxes on the cabinet opposite the room, and he couldn’t even bring himself to walk the distance to fetch it. The act of having to walk across the floor to fetch ammunition, load the weapon, put the barrel against his temple in a sobbing, drunken mess--just picturing it made him feel pathetic, and he threw the unloaded 10mm across the floor, drawing his knees up to his chin and leaning against his bunk.

Now, he sat on the edge of his bunk, tipping another bottle of moonshine back, noting in the back of his mind that the reds brewed a strong drink, but he let the thought drift away with his slowly drifting consciousness as he neared the halfway mark--how much had he had? He was having trouble remembering. A nagging panic struggled to reach the forefront of his brain, he should stop drinking, shouldn’t he? No, probably not. He was already forgetting the sound of Danse’s voice, the confidence that radiated from him, even in the presence of his superiors...he briefly scrambled to hold on to the memories, but...their absence was, he hated to admit it, settling him into a calm he hadn’t felt in months. He felt like he could finally  _ sleep _ , a heavy, dreamless sleep, for the first time in months.

If forgetting was what it took to heal, he decided, taking another swig, then he would forget.

 

***

 

“ _ Maxson!” _

“ _ He’s coming around, he’s--back up, Ingram!” _

_ “Jesus Christ, how the fuck did you not know this was going on?” _

Maxson felt rough hands on his bare chest, and in his daze, he grasped weakly at them. “Danse,” he croaked, and instantly, the small crowd of people around him hushed; the hands on chest retreated hurriedly, and Maxson let his arms fall slack. He’d made a mistake.

“Maxson, sir, how are you feeling?”

He grunted. Ingram. ...maybe. “Fine,” he tried to snap at her, but his voice was hoarse, and he could barely speak above a whisper. Just the motion of moving his jaw sent a dull throbbing through his head, down his spine, and he scowled. Ingram seemingly hadn’t even waited for his answer, having already clanked out of the medbay.

“You’ve been out for a little while, but you’re doing alright now, you should probably take it easy for a little bit, you’re dehydrated,” Cade said, indicating an IV bag attached to Maxson’s arm. “We’ve managed to flush the moonshine out of your system, for the most part, get some pretty strong pre-war drugs into you, which should dull the effects of the hangover…”

His voice trailed off, and everyone fell noticeably silent.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” Maxson said, blinking back the pounding in his head; fortunately it was fading fast. “This. Get it out. Now,” he said, pointing to the needle in his arm.

Reluctantly, Cade stepped forward and slid the needle out. “It’s not that, sir. Um…” Cade looked around helplessly at the others, who remained silent, their faces drawn with anxiety.

_ Can’t imagine what they’d do if I actually died,  _ Maxson thought, curling his lip at his apparently weak-willed crew.

“You said to find you when he was awake,” Ingram said breathlessly, rushing back into the medbay, Captain Kells in tow.

“Thank you, ma’am. You’re dismissed.”

Ingram tore from the room, happy to be anywhere else, and Maxson noted her hurry with concern.

“Captain, if you think you’re about to give me a reprimand, in front of my own crew--” Maxson said, straightening his shoulders against the pain and setting his jaw.

Kells held a hand up to stop him. “No, sir. It’s nothing to do with this. It’s…” He looked around, his face uneasy. “I...don’t know how to say this. You should just get dressed and come with me.”

“I’m not doing this. Tell me what’s going on now. That’s an order.” Maxson was sick of being handled like an unstable mini-nuke. This was  _ his  _ ship,  _ he  _ was in charge.

“I can’t say with accuracy  _ what  _ exactly is going on. I don’t want to give you false information. I need you to see this for yourself and come to your own conclusions.” Kells said. A thin sheet of sweat had broken out over his forehead and he knotted his hands together uncomfortably. With an impatient sigh, Maxson slid from the cot and took his uniform that had been folded into a neat pile on one of the counters. Kells and the others covered their eyes and looked away while Maxson zipped himself into his uniform, and then indicated for Kells to lead the way.

“I want you to understand, sir, we did only what we thought your orders would be. This isn’t something we have any precedence for.”

“‘We’?” Maxson asked, following Kells from the medbay, back towards his own quarters.

“There was a patrol, investigating a Railroad safehouse, I was called in to give orders, since you weren’t capable at the time.” He stopped at the door to Maxson’s quarters and took a deep breath. “I’ll let you handle this on your own, sir. Ad victorium. And...I’m very sorry.”

Maxson raised an eyebrow and watched Kells walk away.  _ Sorry? _

He opened the door and stepped over the threshold, immediately almost collapsing to his knees.

There, in the center of the room, his hands cuffed behind him, legs shackled, head drooped onto his chest, was Danse. He looked up at Maxson, who was rooted to the spot, and his expression was that of unmistakable euphoria.

_ No. Not possible _ . Maxson’s chest was constricting, he could barely breathe. He’d made a mistake. No. He couldn’t have. No. This was something else. There had to be some other explanation. The edges of Maxson’s vision were growing hazy, and he clutched at the door frame for support. His lungs screamed for more air, for some reason they weren’t getting nearly enough...

“Arthur, sir, I--” Danse said--not Danse, no, some sick facsimile,  _ but if that wasn’t Danse, then who _ \--

“ _ Don’t!” _ Maxson snapped. He was going to be sick. He put a hand to his head to control the heavy thudding that had returned in full force, threatening to knock him on his ass. He could hear his pulse ringing in his ears, it was deafening, the only thing he could hear over it was his labored breathing, which  _ still  _ wasn’t enough--

“Arthur, you need help,” Danse yanked at the steel holding him back. “Someone--Kells! Cade!”

“You are not permitted to speak in my presence,” Maxson hissed, slumping to the floor, drawing one knee up to his chin and wrapping both arms around it, pressing it hard against his chest.

“You’re having a panic attack, please, let someone help you--”

“I will cut your tongue from your head, synth,” Maxson said, shooting a fierce glare at Danse, whose face fell, slowly.

“Oh,” he said. His body sagged slightly, and he turned away from Maxson, letting his chin rest on his chest again.

Maxson was dragging himself across the floor now, to his bunk, his face twisted with pain. Danse couldn’t ignore the sounds of his labored breathing, each short, racking breath was like a kick in the stomach; knowing that Maxson wanted no help, especially from him, was even worse.

_ This is their fault,  _ Maxson thought, anger creeping into his mind.  _ They did the blood tests. Said it all matched. His blood is on their hands. Not mine. Not mine... _

With a tremendous grunt of effort, Maxson hoisted himself onto his bunk, sitting on the edge and shedding his jacket.  _ Not on my hands. It wasn’t my fault. I did what I was supposed to.  _ He clasped the holotags around his neck and squeezed, feeling the edge of the metal dig into the palm of his hands. He squeezed harder, feeling them give just a tad, bending to his immense strength.

_ What have I done? _

 

***

 

Hours passed before Maxson even moved again. Once he’d regained the ability to breathe, he had sat, numb to the world, his mind in a petrified, delirious state.

Living with his guilt had been one thing, when he could convince himself that what he’d done was the right thing. When he knew that Danse had agreed it was the right thing.

But this? This was something he had no precedence for. He could fight the Institute, that was a problem that had a simple solution. Losing a brother or sister in battle was a hard fact to face but the path of vengeance was clear, they had lost their life against an enemy that could be eradicated, they had given their life for a cause they believed in.

But what had Danse died for? Maxson had held him in his arms as everything he was, everything he could have been, drained away--and  _ for what _ ? Nothing, not really. A misunderstanding taken one step too far, and now...Danse’s greatest fear was to have died without a cause. And Maxson had had the audacity to tell him not to be scared.

He finally stood. If this was the price of his mistake, then so be it. To have to look into Danse’s eyes a second time as he died, to have to live with the fresh wounds that would open up that would assuredly never heal...fine. He would pay it. He took his knife from his boot and approached Danse, who didn’t move; only when Maxson took a fistful of his hair and thrust his head back did he finally acknowledge the elder’s presence.

“Sir. Please. Don’t do this.”

“What?” Maxson almost dropped his blade. This wasn’t Danse at all, to beg for his life? No, he would never. Which would make killing this synth that much easier. Maxson brought the blade close to his throat when Danse spoke up again.

“Please. I wanted to see you. I’ve never...I…” Danse paused, searching for the right words. “All I have of you are memories, but...I knew from the moment I was built, that I...that...the man I was built to become, that he...I...loved you, more than I ever would have thought possible...I knew when they brought me aboard the Prydwen that I wouldn’t live out the day, but...I had hoped...all I wanted was to see you, at least once.” Tears leaked from under his closed lids. “I know that I’m an aberration, and that I need to be destroyed, that...Danse is probably nearby, but--”

“Danse is dead,” Maxson said coldly. “Dead by my hand, because of  _ you _ .”

“I...how?”

“My crew mistook him for you--a mistake they’ll pay dearly for, mind you--and I dealt with the problem. Much like I’m about to do with you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I never--”

“Don’t try and sympathise with me!” The longer this went on, the harder it was going to be to...to do what had to be done.

_ But I was wrong once before, doing what I thought was right. _

No, that kind of thinking was dangerous. This time, there was no question.

Danse held his head high, staring straight ahead, waiting for Maxson to strike. “I suppose I’ve already died once for what I believe in,” he said quietly. “I’m proud to do it again.”

Maxson flexed his fingers around the handle of his knife and tried to calm his nerves.  _ Too late.  _ “You’ve done  _ nothing! _ ” he snapped. “The beliefs you hold aren’t even your own--they’re a crude copy, your ideals, your beliefs, even your most intimate memories are stolen. From him, and from me!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want for any of this--”

“ _ Don’t! _ ” Maxson slammed the knife down on the table. He couldn’t do this. Was it weak to believe that he’d been given a second chance to make things right? Of course it was--there was nothing to make right, the only way to make anything right would be to someone bring Danse back from the dead, and that wasn’t happening. But yet, here sat the next best thing. He could have Danse back, the  _ only _ thing he wanted, pretend like this whole mess hadn’t happened--except that he couldn’t. This synth may have been the next best thing, but second-best was a long way from first. A very, very long way. But he couldn’t kill him, either. Not again. Watching him die again would be a fate worse than death.

Which left him only one option.

“What are you doing?” Danse asked, startled, as Maxson took a knee and began fiddling with the lock on Danse’s shackles. He didn’t answer, he merely freed Danse’s legs and moved around to his back to free his cuffs. “I don’t understand,” Danse said, bringing his hands around to his lap and twisting his wrists to bring the sensation back.

“I can’t kill you. Even though I have to. I’ve done it once before and I was wrong and I can’t live with that.” Maxson picked the blade back up off the table, and Danse creeped forward in his seat.

“Arthur, you’re not--”

“If I can’t bring myself to do what needs to be done, then I’m not fit to be elder.”

“ _ Arthur!” _ Danse lunged towards the elder, but it was too late--he’d already put the blade just under his ear and brought it down swiftly, leaving an angry red gash over the side of his neck.  _ Eye for an eye. _ He immediately let the knife clatter to the floor and clapped a hand to his neck, clapping the other to his mouth to muffle his bellow of pain. Blood welled up under his collar and spilled over, coursing over his uniform. Already he felt dizzy.

Danse clumsily fastened a hand over Maxson’s neck, trying in vain to stop the bleeding; he pressed down on it but it was coming it hard spurts, spilling between his fingers. “Why did you-- _ why _ \--” he gathered up Maxson in his arms and gently guided him to the floor. “Arthur--you can’t--please don’t--” He felt hopeless, there had to be something he could do. He couldn’t allow Maxson to die, not like this, he wasn’t thinking clearly--but what was he supposed to  _ do? _

“Now you know what it feels like,” Arthur could already feel his grasp on reality slipping. “To watch the only thing in your life that matters slip away.”

“No, no, it--it doesn’t have to be this way--it didn’t have to--” Danse brought his fist down on the floor. Why couldn’t he  _ do something? _

Maxson was already gone; his breathing was slowing, but his consciousness had faded, his bright blue eyes were dimming and Danse hastily closed them. He hugged Maxson’s body close to his own, desperately looking around for something,  _ anything,  _ he had to save Maxson, there had to be a way, there had to, there was--

There was one thing.

Danse carefully set Maxson down and sprinted from the room.

 

***

 

Maxson awoke feeling...different. He couldn’t describe the feeling. But something was definitely off. His surroundings were dim, but familiar. He was definitely on the Prydwen...somewhere.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Danse’s voice was filled with concern, and for one moment, all was right with the world. He wanted to tell Danse that, yes, he was fine, he was alive and so was Danse--

But he was alive. And so was Danse. Wasn’t he?

“What’s going on?” Maxson expected his throat to be sore, his voice to be hoarse, as his last memories came back to him. He touched his neck. Nothing. Not even a scar. Cautiously, he moved his hand to his face.  _ That  _ was still scarred. What--?

“You’re back on the Prydwen.”

“I’m...alive?”

Danse sucked in a deep lungful of air between his teeth. “Y-e-e-es.”

“What does that mean?”

Danse stood up and carried the chair he’d been sitting in to Maxson’s side and set it back down. “I couldn’t let you die, Arthur.” His voice cracked. “You’re right, you know. You are the only thing that matters in my life. I thought when I came aboard the Prydwen that it would be the end for me, and I was okay with that, knowing that you’d still be alive somewhere...but...I couldn’t live knowing that...that you weren’t.”

“I did just fine,” Maxson growled, and Danse turned away to hide his wounded expression. “Now--what did you do? How did you--” His chest suddenly felt like there was something very heavy dropped on it. The chest that was not his own, he realized, horror seeping into every fiber of his being as he registered what the guilt etched across Danse’s face meant.

“No. You didn’t. Danse--you--you didn’t,” Maxson sputtered, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “Please tell me--”

“I went to the Railroad,” Danse said quietly, unable to make eye contact. “There was…” He swallowed. “There was another Brotherhood synth. Made to replace you. They were going to give it a mind wipe, reconstructive surgery, but I--”

“You had them port me to it,” Maxson said, sitting up slowly. His body was identical in every way, but...no, it wasn’t him. It was wrong. He looked down at his hands. They were a perfect match, his fingernails were a bit longer than they had been, but--

Danse hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry, sir. I just...couldn’t do it.”

Maxson’s hands shook, his every instinct told him to scramble back, away from--from  _ what _ ? It was  _ in  _ him, it  _ was  _ him, he could never get away, it was always there, buried deep within him. “This is my punishment,” he breathed. “There are no second chances.” He leapt from the bunk, feeling each of his muscles flex in the same familiar way, and he almost wished they felt foreign. He felt like his body had been invaded, it wasn’t his own and yet someone it  _ was  _ in every concievable way. He snatched the nearest reflective surface he could find--a steel scalpel--and turned it in the light to catch his reflection. It was a perfect match, even his own mother would mistake him for Arthur Maxson. But he wasn’t. Not anymore.

He was a synth.


End file.
